


Freedom.

by crality



Series: This Is Not What I Had Planned. [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Body Dysmorphic Disorder, Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Other, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-04
Updated: 2016-02-04
Packaged: 2018-05-18 04:34:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5898448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crality/pseuds/crality
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chuckie never felt connected to anything his entire life - not until he escaped.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Freedom.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the backstory to a character of mine in an alternate universe filled with a lot of murder. He originated as a character based on Chuckie Finster, so that's why he's named that... Anyway, I hope you like this weird thing.

“I just think Chuckie needs to be… more stimulated.”

Chas sits across a big oak desk from his son’s fourth grade teacher. The indignance is seething off of him, rippling around the room and offending every party there. Chuckie is next to him, his feet in his chair, his sketchpad on his knees. He ignores the conversation, doodling away as the adults have their meeting.

“Chuckie’s plenty stimulated. He draws all day. He writes, sometimes. His best friend comes over.” Chas knows how to play defense. His hand finds the back of Chuckie’s head and the child tugs his curls out of fingers, not wanting to be distracted from his art.

“Alright, then… maybe differently stimulated.” Ms. Patel is a kind woman, though a bit strict. She has taken a liking to Chuckie despite his oddities, despite the way he seems distracted by the windows all day. This meeting is meant to help the boy, but so far all she’s discovered is that his father is a talker. “If Chuckie doesn’t… how do I put this? If he doesn’t make mistakes… he’ll never know how to cope with them as an adult.”

“You want my son to make more mistakes? Are we being punished for being too good at school?”

Chuckie buries himself further into his drawing, pencil digging into the paper as he pretends he isn’t listening.

“No, of course not, I’m delighted with Chuckie’s performance in class.”

“Then why the third degree?”

“I don’t… This isn’t an attack, Mr. Finster.” Ms. Patel takes a breath, gathering her thoughts as she opens a folder with Chuckie’s name written across it. “Chuckie.” Chuckie looks up from his drawing, curious and attentive. His hands shake. “The Devilles are across the hall with Mr. Kinsley, do you want to go play with them?”

Chuckie’s gaze shoots to Chas, and he purses his lips tight. “Can I?”

“Mm,” Chas eyes the teacher for a moment, nerves fluttering as he leans to Chuckie and plucks the pencil out of his hands. “I’ll walk you over. Don’t walk with this in your hand.” He leans Chuckie by the shoulder, sliding the pencil into his backpack, and takes the notepad to do the same. “Come on.”

Chuckie holds his father’s hand as they walk the thirty feet to the doorway across the hall. He can feel sweat mingling in their palms and it sends fear through him as he waits to be dismissed.

“Come find me if anything happens, okay, Chuck?”

“What’s gonna happen?” Chuckie shifts as Chas adjusts his shirt, fixes his pockets, tries to tame curls.

“Anything can happen.”

Chas watches Chuckie sidle into the room, watches him say hi to Mr. Kinsley. He watches the boy settle in with the twins, removing his notepad again and returning to his doodles. When he turns to go back to Ms. Patel’s classroom, fear grips him and he has to check through the little window in the door one more time before it settles.

“Mr. Finster, do you think that Chuckie might benefit from therapy?”

Chas’ return to Ms. Patel’s hot spot sends anger to replace his suppressed fear. He ignites, nostrils flaring as he pushes glasses up his nose and shakes his head vehemently.

“No. No, no, I don’t. Chuckie is just a normal kid, and I don’t appreciate you insinuating otherwise.”

“I didn’t mean to offend.” Ms. Patel is cautious with every word, fingering through worksheets until she plucks two out from a pile. Chas notes that all of them have red marks on the top, and he fears a lecture on his son’s grades, the worry a weight in his stomach. “I wanted to show you a couple of things that have worried me.” She hands Chas a piece of paper with Chuckie’s messy handwriting scribbles over about half of it. He makes a note to work on handwriting.

“Did he not finish?” Chas reads the prompt at the top - it’s a worksheet from St. Patrick’s Day.

_You found a lucky leprechaun at the end of the rainbow! He leaps out from behind his pot o’ gold and decides to grant you three wishes! What would your three wishes be, and why? Use your imagination to make your answers as creative as possible!_

Chas scans through Chuckie’s answer, paper quivering in his nervous hands.

_Here is my three wishes and why. 1. I would wish for my daddy to have a lot of friends and to be happy a lot because he is mean when he is not happy. 2. I would wish for friends too. I have some friends but they are not allowed at my house. I want to have a sleepover and if I had a lot of friends we could all have fun together. 3. I would wish for all of us (my friends and my daddy’s friends and my dad) to be with my mommy because my dad says she is where the angels are and I want to be an angel with her. And I do not want to be alone._

“Why are you showing me this?” Chas has crumpled the side of the paper, has stained it with his sweat. He places it back on the desk and Ms. Patel immediately hands him the second one, a chilled look on her face to match the atmosphere.

The new worksheet immediately makes Chas’ blood pump hard. The bottom of the page is lined with little figures with x’s in their eyes. He recognizes Ms. Patel. He recognizes his son.

_My favorite activity! Write about how you like to spend your free time. Try to think of things you do for fun!_

_I like to draw. It is hard to think of things to draw sometimes. I draw a lot of pictures of my dad. Sometimes I draw at school when I am suposed to do my work and Ms. Patel gets mad at me. My dad says I have to draw every single day so I do not know why I am in trouble. When I ask a question in class sometimes everybody gets mad at me but I do not know the answers. I like to draw them all dead so they will be gone and not mad. I know there mom and dads will be mad if they are dead but they will not be mad at me because it is just my imagination._

The sound of Chas balling the paper into one hand breaks a tense silence. Ms. Patel looks sympathetic, her hands folded over the rest of the folder.

“Are they all like this?” She expects the father’s voice to be small, to be scared. When she feels accused, she wonders if she is misreading the tone of Chas’ voice. “Well?” Chas spits the word at her, as if she is the venom infecting his son’s head.

“No. Most of Chuckie’s compositions are lovely, but every now and then something like this pops up-”

“So why didn’t you show me sooner, if you were so worried? What kind of a teacher are you?” Chas is on his feet, tossing the crumpled worksheet back onto the desk. He reaches for his coat, sliding it on hastily and slipping a little as he loses his balance. “Don’t count on us attending this school anymore.”

“Mr. Finster!” Ms. Patel rises from her chair, shock running through her. “Chuckie is a confused little boy and he needs as much support as he can get!”

“My son is perfectly healthy, my son is well protected, and my son does not need you people putting this _shit_ into his head!” Chas’ every pause is punctuated by the spit in the corner of his mouth spraying, by the point of his gnawed finger. “You are supposed to be teaching him!”

“Chas! Chuckie doesn’t know right from wrong because he’s never had any consequences! I can only do so much from a classroom!”

“Yeah. I know.” Chas mutters with finality, grabbing his bag and storming from the classroom. Chuckie is waiting at the other side of the hallway, clutching his notebook to his chest. “I told you to wait inside. Give me that.” Chuckie flinches as his father snags the pencil from his hands, spinning him around to pack his things again.

“Am I in trouble?”

“No, Chuckie. We’re going home.”

“Can I go to Phil and Lil’s for dinner?”

“What did I just say?”

Chuckie hesitates, his heart beating fast beneath his ribs.

“We have to go home?”

“We _get_ to go home. Come on.” Chas stands and takes Chuckie’s hand, and they don’t come back the next day.

\--

It’s been a whole year since Chuckie tried to kill himself.

He hasn’t been outside of his house since.

The doors lock from the outside. The windows are nailed shut. When Chas goes to work, Chuckie is allowed to spend two hours on the computer in the living room. He is only allowed to do his school work, but sometimes he manages to guess Chas’ password for the week and sneak onto his father’s email.

He is grounded for three days every time, the lock on his bedroom door snapped shut and only opened for his meals.

It’s during one of these periods of dull neglect that he sneaks out into the alley by the house. The sticky air of warm spring feels like the aftermath of a hot shower on Chuckie’s skin. The smell of grass, the sound of the cars zipping down the busy street not far from their quiet neighborhood, the grit of dirt beneath his knees… is overwhelming. He sinks his fingers into the grass, ripping pieces out and lifting them to his face as he cries into the mixture of dirt and weeds.

His fingertips sting from prying at the nails out of his bedroom windowsil. His moment of appreciation passes and he lifts to his feet, turning back to his window and leaning over the edge to grab his backpack and sling it over his shoulders. 

It’s about half an hour’s walk to get into the busier parts of Goldport. He imagines it’s nothing compared to LA, but it’s far more extravagant than anything he’s seen since the hospital. People wander the streets despite the fact that it’s past ten PM. Stores are still open, and Chuckie clutches tight to his backpack as he wanders aimlessly, happy just to be soaking in the fluorescent lights.

He finds a diner on the corner of Magnolia - Penny’s. It’s cozy and dark, not like the diner in Grease, one of the only movies he’s been allowed to watch. Chuckie is surprised to even have a point of reference. He scans the dining room, and decides on a seat at the empty bar.

“Hey, babe.” The waitress surprises Chuckie and he gasps, clutching onto his backpack, staring up at her with wide eyes. “Oh, honey, did I spook you?” She has a bright smile and rings under her eyes and her voice is feather soft. “Not a man of many words, huh?”

Chuckie shakes his head carefully, and watches her fingers move against the menu in her hand. He likes the way her nails glitter and the way she looks delicate and strong at the same time. He wonders what she’s thinking of him, sitting in his stool with his backpack in his lap. Hoodie a little too small. Hands still dusted with dirt. Nail beds caked with rusty blood.

“Um… do you have… any mac and cheese?” His voice lilts with hope as he returns his gaze to her face.

“We do, yeah. You want a drink?” She writes down his order in her notepad and Chuckie’s eyebrows tilt together.

“Well… well, how much is it?” He shoves a fist into his pocket and pulls out the money he’s managed to gather from around the house, counting it carefully.

“Three twenty five, a dollar fifty for the drink. Plus tax.” Curiosity sets the waitress’ tone at a strange pitch. She watches Chuckie sort quarters, watches his face distort. “How much you got?”

“Two dollars.” Silence stretches between them. Chuckie peers up slowly, all the optimism he’s garnered dashed as he meets the waitress’ eyes. Pity. Her gaze makes him feel pitiful. “That’s not enough, huh? Um… what can I get?” The waitress laughs, scanning her menu and teetering her head back and forth as she considers.

“Welll… We’ve got Galaga.” Chuckie follows her little wave to the corner of the restaurant, finding some kind of big television in a flashing box. “Just a quarter a game.” The… game, he guesses, looks old maybe. He isn’t sure, to be honest. It could have come out last night and he’d never know.

Without saying goodbye, he slips off of his stool and heads for the game, peering at the screen curiously. He shrugs his backpack on and his hands find the controls easily, though after a few button presses he realizes nothing will happen without a quarter added. He fishes for one from his pocket again and clicks through the screens, squinting as he tries to figure out how to play.

A gasp squeaks out of him as the bleeping and the flashing of the game takes over. He sinks into the colors and the buzz, finding a groove quickly, and by the time he’s on his third quarter he’s gotten past three levels. He gets distracted by the time on his watch and nerves settle in, and he gathers his things and rushes back to his bedroom window. When he dreams he sees spaceships, something he’s never dreamed of before.

Chuckie sneaks out again a week later, and heads straight for Penny’s. He plays the game all night, loaded with quarters from couch cushions and corners of the kitchen. He pushes himself hard, staying until the diner closes and the sweet waitress from before walks him out the door. He babbles all the way to the street, telling her every detail as she laughs and tells him she can barely make it past the first level.

He can’t make it back to Penny’s for another two weeks. Chas gets suspicious and Chuckie cracks down on himself, keeping quiet in his room and drawing comics about killing aliens. His stash of secret drawings doubles in the weeks he gets away and he starts to fear that his father is right about the world. Maybe being out there, where people are mean all the time, is changing him. He thinks about the game, Galaga, and the waitress with her soft features and plump lips.

One night before Chuckie sneaks out, the sixth time in two months, he dreams about her. Thin fingers scooping through his hair and warm lips on his. She says his name and her thighs are bare against his and when he shoots awake he has a hand wrapped around himself and he shivers.

He’s never had a dirty dream before and he cries when he cums, guilt filtering through every vein until he washes it away under a warm shower. Everything is a little chillier outside, and Chuckie bundles closer into his hoodie and shrugs his backpack further up his shoulders. Halfway there he realizes he’s forgotten the lump of quarters he’d collected over the past few days and he nearly doubles back, but the need to get to the diner pushes him forward. He has to say sorry.

Seeing her lips in person gives Chuckie such great pause that he beelines for the video game and crashes into the seat, focusing in on trying to beat his past score. He only has two quarters in his pocket, so he has to make the best of them. His fingers move fast, his mind zeroing in on the game and forgetting the dream and the locked doors and his scars and his blood and his father’s voice. He’s good at this. Finally, something comes naturally to him. Something he hasn’t practiced every day of his life. Something he can do with friends… if he had any of those left.

“You’re not bad.”

Chuckie shouts, his concentration breaking as his fingers slip from the controls and he spins around. In front of him is the smallest man he’s ever seen. Dark hair and big eyes behind glasses. Pretty braids like Chuckie’s not allowed to have. His hoodie fits. He’s wearing... a skirt. Chuckie questions his entire line of thinking, rethinks every sentence carefully with ‘she’ pronouns, wondering what is right. He’s quiet so long that the visitor laughs.

“You’re quieter than I thought you’d be. You lost your score.” Chuckie follows the boy’s - er, _person’s_ \- wave to the screen. His game has ended and he sinks his shoulders, digging in his pockets for another quarter. His shoulders slump and demeanor dampens as he remembers the little pile of quarters under his pillow at home. “Here.” Chuckie turns a little to find a quarter held out for him. He takes it silently, and leans over before hesitating at the slot.

“Do you… just want to watch me play?”

“Yep.”

“I’m not good or anything.”

“Yeah, you are. You almost beat ASS.”

“What?” Chuckie flinches at the bad word, once again following his companion’s finger to look at the screen. He’d never paid attention to the high scores before, but now he zips over them and a little gasp escapes the middle of his tight chest. He points this time, right at the word blinking at the top of the list. “That’s so rude! Why would someone do that?” His face is a picture of shock and disgust and when he looks back, his friend is laughing into their hands.

“Play! Play, I want to watch!”

“Wait,” Chuckie whines, confused and rushed. “I’m… I’m Chuckie.”

“Carlos! Play!” Carlos is bouncing up and down, leaning hands onto Chuckie’s shoulder and trying to physically guide his hands back to the controls.

“Wait! It’s nice to meet you, Carlos.” Chuckie snaps his hand out of the others’, sticking it back out to shake. Just like his dad has taught him. Carlos stares at the hand, eyebrows worrying together before he looks up at Chuckie’s face in disbelief. They stare at each other for a moment, Chuckie slowly deflating as he feels the gaze bore into him. “I was just being… polite.” He turns, settling into the game and picking his level, heat blooming throughout his neck and ears and cheeks. This must be why his dad keeps him away from so many people - he is awkward. He is strange and defective. Chuckie zeroes into the lights like usual, blasting away at the invasion, but his head feels light and dizzy with loathing, and he wishes he was in his bed with his teddy bear tucked against his chest.

The insecurity focuses him even as the kid bounces next to him, pointing out where to go next and what to do with which level. Chuckie ignores the noise, clicking away until he’s sure he’s gotten farther than ever before. With one life left, he feels the prickle of nerves on the back of his neck and he’s forgotten about being watched. He focuses on not messing up, on doing better than he is, on being good at something.

When he finally fails and the buzzing and bleeping startle him out of his state, he turns to find a new person entirely by his side. Chuckie is met by the man’s chest, and he leans back to catch his face. He’s handsome and the way he raises an eyebrow makes Chuckie think he’s being challenging, asking for something unspoken. And then he speaks.

“My kitten wants you to come home with him.”

The man’s voice grips Chuckie’s throat closed. It’s smooth and scary, and he shudders out a breath as he works up enough courage to reply.

“I can’t. I have to go home. My dad will be mad.”

The stranger seems to consider the situation for a moment before reaching out to touch Chuckie’s chin with two fingers. The pressure of the man’s thumb tilts Chuckie’s mouth open as he shivers.

“No one has to tell your dad anything.”

“I have to go,” Chuckie blurts, rude and sudden. He slides off of the bar stool, stumbling away from the intimidating man and heading out toward the street. “I’m not allowed to talk to strangers!”

The fluorescent light of corner store signs and neon color of billboards flood Chuckie’s vision and he pauses on the sidewalk outside of Penny’s, catching his breath. He’s on the verge of a nervous attack, waiting for it to happen and scared he wouldn’t have his father’s stern hand to hold him down, wouldn’t have the little pill to make the shaking stop. He clutches his shirt and drags it away from his neck, forcing himself to take steps forward as he hears the diner door open and close again.

“Chuckie! Wait!” Carlos is calling for him, but Chuckie picks up the pace until he’s running, sprinting down the sidewalk and past the few people who dared to be outside at night in the city of Goldport. A stitch catches him in his side but he knows he’s getting close to home, knows he’s not far from sanctuary.

By the time he reaches his house his feet are useless and he trips, crumpling into the side yard just under his window. Tears explode from him and he clutches his face to keep quiet, fingers pressed into lips to shut up his stupid, useless, cowardly whimpers. Wide eyes stare into the street, waiting for his pursuers to round the corner and overcome him. He waits for minutes. Time ticks slowly, his fingers eventually going slack against his chin. Eyes relaxing. Chest still jumping as he works hard to try to control the shaking coming from inside of him.

He’s finally sure no one is coming. It’s easy, now, to lift up through the window and onto his bed. It came with practice and Chuckie is used to the motion. Tonight, though, seemed simpler and he ponders it for a moment as he strips from his sweaty clothes and mixes them into his hamper. He grabs the towel he’d used for his shower earlier and wraps it around his waist, snapping his window shut and driving the nails back down into the soft wood before crossing the room to the door. His hand hesitates on the knob as he realizes what he’s done.

“My backpack.”

Chuckie knows his father. He knows he will notice the missing bag. He knows he will be spanked, will be locked in his bedroom for days. He turns back to look at the window, grip tight on his towel, and then turns back to the door. What would he rather do? Face the city again, terrified of the strangeness and the danger? Or wait for his father’s inevitable punishment? The options form a lump in his throat and he thinks he has a few hours to decide; that he might as well wash the grime from his skin.

The door is locked.

\--

Every morning Chuckie thinks of the last real conversation he had. He stirs and he squints against the darkness and lets the fear of whatever is in the shadows settle into him and become bearable. And then he remembers.

_You lied to me, Chuckie. Liars get punished, liars aren’t good people._

He closes his eyes and he tries to remember the smell of grass and the feel of fresh air. He thinks if he sits still long enough the air conditioner feels like breeze. The cotton of his quilt starts to feel like skin on his skin. Sometimes it seems like his teddy bear, Wawa, is looking at him, not with glass eyes but with a real bear’s eyes, with compassion and longing. Chuckie lays in bed for hours, waiting for strength to get up. And he has to get up. He has to gather his breakfast from the top of the basement stairs and he has to collect his homework for the day, or he will not hear his father’s voice for days and he will start to rock and sway and cry and never know how to stop.

_You aren’t brave enough to be out there! It’s dangerous, and you aren’t smart enough to listen to me._

Today he’s waited too long for his breakfast and the ants have claimed his toast and eggs. He brushes them to the side best he can and sits on the stairs, wiping his fork on his boxers and digging into what is left for him. His fork is rounded on the tips, dulled so Chuckie can’t hurt himself. He isn’t allowed to have a knife, even a butter knife. When he’s finished he pushes it through the slot under the door, peering carefully into the rest of the house. It’s quiet. It must be a weekday.

_Do you want to die? I thought you were over that! If you go out there alone, you will die._

His homework is some reading. A few printouts of articles from Wikipedia. He gets them almost every day, and has to squint to read them. His glasses are old, his prescription outdated. But the outside is dangerous.

Sometimes Chuckie sits at the top of the stairs at night. He leans his head against the little flap that leads to the living room and he listens to his father eat his dinner and watch the news. He has never been allowed to watch the news. Each story is new to him and he learns more about the world from the voices in the television than he ever will on the papers he gets every morning. He learns about the people who go missing and how every time they disappear, the policemen find them someday. Dead. He learns about murder, and how people think it’s bad, but when he hears the stories he closes his eyes and he thinks about how happy he would be to be with his mommy. He thinks maybe the people who murder just want to make people happy.

He draws them, sometimes. The murders. He makes them real and pride swells inside of him with every scene of glazed eyes and bloody fingers. Once he draws himself, and the sight of his own lifeless gaze forces his hand and he rips the paper into pieces and doesn’t draw for two weeks.

_I’m just trying to protect you. This is for your own good._

There is only one morning that is different. The door cracks in half and Chuckie screams, tucking himself into the corner, unable to hear his own shrieks over the buzz of speakers and voices and sirens. He cowers, keeping Wawa safe against his chest, waiting to be taken away like his father has always said he would be. Taken away and tortured and touched and beaten until he’s black and blue. A cry squeaks out of his tight throat as he feels hands on his shoulders. The touch fades away as fast as it had come and when Chuckie looks up he sees the bluest eyes he could ever imagine.

“We’re here to help you, buddy.” Chuckie’s fingers are weak as the man takes them, grabbing tight to his forearm and pulling him to his feet. He can see the whole scene, now. Chas is at the top of the stairs, hands behind his back as he screams down at the officers and his son. Blue and red lights flash from the windows in the house. Little walkie talkies crackle off and on, voices bubbling off of the policemen’s hips. Chuckie’s wide eyes can’t settle on one thing and he wants to dissolve into the floor. A blanket wraps around his shoulders, followed by an arm, and an unfamiliar mixture of scents - caramel sweet and wood spice - wafts over him as he is pressed to the officer’s shoulder. “Let us take care of you.”

\--

Hospitals are cold. Chuckie remembers that clearly. He remembers the last time he laid in a hospital bed, smaller and braver. Optimistic. Naive. Today he is scared, hard tears squeaking past his eyelashes and down his cheeks as he stares at the two officers at the end of his bed. The past creeps up on him and hooks into his throat, closing it shut. He shakes. Even in the cold, his hands sweat and his forehead is slick. The officers probably think he’s the most cowardly, most useless person - though he was immensely terrified of what he was to be used for.

They couldn’t be more different, the police. One was tall and big and Chuckie’s first thought was to be intimidated by him, but he was kind. His smile was genuine and he pat Chuckie’s thigh carefully as he sat to his right. The other was short - just a hair taller than Chuckie - and his face was set in solemn stone. A spark of curiosity shoots through Chuckie as he glances over the smaller man, spotting tattoos on his knuckles and knots in his hair. His eyes are so blue.

“Where’s my dad?” Chuckie asks, his eyes staying wary of the quieter, meaner man on his left. “Why did you arrest him?”

“Well, hello to you, too, sunshine.” The big man has a loud voice, but again it is kind. He exudes sweetness and generosity and he draws all of Chuckie’s attention with his hum of a laugh and his gentle eyes. “I’m Officer Sullivan, or Sully. And this is Officer Tate, yeah? Your dad’s in custody for a lot of reasons, that’s why we need to ask you some questions. Is that alright?”

Chuckie nods. It’s a regretful decision, but he answers the questions to the best of his ability. Was his dad mean? Sometimes. Did he hit you? Kind of. Do you remember the last time you left the house? Yes. How old are you? Seventeen… no… eighteen. I don’t remember. What year is it? I don’t… remember.

It gets too hard. It’s scary. Chuckie cries and he shakes some more, and Sully’s hand on his arm scares him so badly that he shrieks away from him and tries to hide under the thin hospital sheets. The air turns violent, scratching its way into his throat, assaulting his prickled skin, cold on his lips and hot on his hands.

“Chuckie.” Officer Tate’s voice has become familiar, now. The first voice he’d heard since his father’s. Squeaky and comforting and edged with a demand. “I have something for you.”

The lights burn Chuckie’s eyes as he pries them open, searching reluctantly for the officer’s gift. The man presses a worn, tattered teddy bear into his hands and relief floods through his blood and his bones, all the heavy fear floating away. He clutches the bear, Wawa, to his chest and melts into the mattress as if none of this was happening. He was back in his bed, in the dark, in the quiet.

“Do you remember this?” Officer Tate’s voice breaks the quiet again, and Chuckie looks up to see his backpack in the man’s hands. “We found it at a diner the last time anyone saw you. You remember that?” All of the stiffness of Tate’s voice has left, leaving him soft and kind, and Chuckie remembers that cops are good people. Cops are there to help. He nods, once, fingers curling around Wawa’s paw. “It’s been a while, buddy. It’s been two years since we found this.”

“Two?” Chuckie murmurs, stricken.

“Do you remember Tommy?” Sully asks, and Chuckie whips his head to look at him. He nods. “He’s been looking for you for three.”

“Three years…” It creeps up. Chuckie thinks he might vomit. His brain is crawling to a halt, shutting down and bringing him with it.

“A lot of people thought you were dead.” Chuckie looks back to Officer Tate, who is holding a few pieces of paper in his hands. He tilts them toward him, his eyebrows raised. “These are good, Chuckie. Kinda dark, but really good.” Tate’s gaze travels from the drawings to Chuckie’s face, and he quickly avoids the stare. He says a quiet thank you and can see the little smile on Tate’s face in his peripheral vision. It’s comforting. He’s made someone happy, at least.

The three of them are quiet for a long time. Sully fills out the rest of some paperwork. Tate studies Chuckie’s depictions of crime. Chuckie squeezes Wawa’s hand and imagines he’s floating away.

“Alright, kid, we’re pretty much done here, alright?” Sully quips suddenly, getting to his feet and towering over the bed. Chuckie stares up at him, silenced by his size. “If you need anything, let us know.” There’s something about the way that Sully says it that makes Chuckie believe it. He nods, and watches the giant pack up and head for the door. Tate stays put for a moment before hanging Chuckie’s backpack on the back of his chair.

“Can you… Where’s the shower?” Tate and Sully exchange glances, and Chuckie can see the concern in Sully’s face. He sees the nod, and silent understanding between them, and the buzz of anxiety starts making its way through him again. “Is there one in the bathroom?”

“Yeah, buddy,” Tate starts, turning away from Sully in his chair and giving Chuckie a big smile. It crinkles his eyes and reddens his cheeks and Chuckie’s so stunned by it that he goes quiet. “But let me show you. You’ll need some help with all that, anyway.” Sully bids them another quiet farewell, disappearing into the hall as Tate hops to his feet and rounds the bed to Chuckie’s right side. He unloops the IV from his bed and helps Chuckie to his feet, guiding him across the room and to the bathroom, all with that mesmerizing smile. They stop just outside the open door, and Tate’s smile fades in slow motion.

“What is it?” Chuckie murmurs, suddenly glad for his sturdy arm to hold onto. “You look scared.”

“I just want you to remember it’s been two years, okay?” They stare at each other, and Chuckie thinks he knows exactly what the man’s feeling. He feels the fear and the queasy uncertainty and the gentle concern. His hand curls around the officer’s arm and he nods, trying to think of what he looked like two years ago - of how much he must have changed. “I’m Phil.” It’s not a name Chuckie had thought to assign the man, but it strikes inside his body anyway. Rattles around in his chest, bumps every rib, and settles into his heart. Phil.

“I haven’t had a real shower in two years, please let me in.” Phil laughs, loud and from the belly. He grasps Chuckie’s hand tight and grins as they keep their eyes locked and now Chuckie feels his pride, and he can’t help but smile, too.

Phil leads him into the bathroom and under the warm yellow lights he seems warmer, too. The rings under his eyes seem to fade, the color is his skin isn’t sallow. He’s an angel. Chuckie is calmed, and avoids the mirror by watching Phil watch him. He doesn’t have to ask for help - Phil unties his hospital gown and carefully slides it over his IV tube, the bag. He removes Chuckie’s socks one by one, and when he gets back up to his feet, they go right back to staring.

“Do you want to look?” Chuckie takes his time before nodding. He only does it because Phil is there; because if he falls apart, someone kind and peaceful will sweep up his pieces. “Okay. All you have to do is turn around.”

Chuckie takes a deep breath. He finds Phil’s waiting hand and laces their fingers together, less like a lover and more like a child lost in the dark. They hold on tight to each other, and with Phil’s heartbeat pulsing into his hand, Chuckie finds the courage to turn around and face himself.

It isn’t enough. The wind is knocked out of his concave stomach. His ribs, visible and fragile, shake with his breath. His hipbones, his knees, his elbows, his collar - they all stick out in impossible positions, cartoonish. Laughable. There is a fuzz of facial hair he feels foolish for not noticing, feels stupid for ignoring. He’d been so ignorant. His hair is greasy, stringy, down to his shoulders and almost straight from the weight of the dirt and the grime. His eyes have glazed, have turned grey, and he remembers the shreds of his drawing and he bursts. Everything spills out of him and he howls, crumbling to the floor with his limp hand still held tightly in Phil’s.

Phil follows him, and Chuckie feels his pieces swept up - not into the bin, but into the man’s arms. He lets himself be clasped back together, to be held tightly and safely. He cries into Phil’s uniform, feeling the tears and the spit and the snot soak through the shoulder.

“That’s not me,” He screams, muffled by the man. “That isn’t me, that isn’t _me_.” He repeats the mantra, and Phil whispers ‘I know’s into his hair. They rock there, back and forth, for an eternity as Chuckie slows to a shuttering stop. He tilts his head off of the wet shoulder, flooded now with embarrassment. He says he’s sorry, but Phil pets back his hair and shakes his head, and helps him back to his feet. “I think I just… blocked it all out. I thought I was the same. I thought I was fine.”

“We all do that, sometimes.” Phil leaves Chuckie only to turn the hot water on. The sound is a comfort and Chuckie takes a deep breath, unsure if he needs more help or needs to be left alone. “Come on, let’s get you clean.” Chuckie nods and takes a step toward the shower, pausing to look Phil in the eyes - was he supposed to strip naked in front of the officer? “Oh! I’ll be outside.” And Chuckie isn’t really sure if he wants Phil to leave - or if maybe he’d been hoping the man would watch. Phil pauses at the door and glances back, leaning on the wall to get a good look at him. “For the record… I like your hair much better long.”

\--

Three weeks of hospital time. Two weeks of shelter. And then Chuckie is on his own, placed in a low-rent apartment too far up from the ground. He’s floating every day, staring down the window at the busy street. It’s too quiet and too still, and it’s bright. The light is so bright. So much brighter than the basement he’s been told destroyed him. Made him weak. Made him scared. Funny, the fear is all that’s familiar anymore.

He gets a job. At Penny’s. He wipes tables and sometimes he helps in the kitchen. He smells like grease and his feet hurt. It’s miserable, but on his breaks he eats mac and cheese and talks to the pretty waitress and plays Galaga. That’s okay, sometimes. The mac and cheese is too thick and the waitress is mean sometimes - Chuckie learns quickly that the world is not what it seems.

But Galaga. Chuckie’s good at that. It doesn’t betray him. He gets good at it, spending a couple of hours avoiding going home at the end of his shifts. Before long he beats the high score, and a floaty pride swells under his skin and guides him home and to work and on the bus and through the haze of his new, dull life. Sometimes he gets distracted from bussing tables, staring at the screen and waiting to see his initials at the top of the list.

“You beat my score.” Chuckie nearly screams from the shock, and he would have had he not quickly deciphered the voice over his shoulder. He spins, unable to contain himself before throwing arms around the man’s shoulders, crying out his name.

“Phil!” Chuckie hasn’t seen him since the hospital, not in person. He peeks into dreams, during the day and the night. Wrapped around him feels natural - Chuckie fits there. He holds on just a little too long, only moving when Phil’s fingers creep to his waist, gently pressing him off of his toes.

“Hey, buddy.” It takes no time at all to catch up. Chuckie doesn’t have many updates. He tells Phil about his job and about his apartment and about how he checks his mailbox every day. He remembers that Phil liked his drawings and his hair, and he tells him all about those things, until he’s full to brimming with anxiety and his mouth is dry from babbling. Phil just smiles, watching him simmer, and when he quiets down the man touches his chin with two fingers and runs a thumb over his lower lip.

Chuckie doesn’t move. The drag of Phil’s thumb is calming. His eyes shut and his heart slows. His brain thanks him. It’s serene.

“Are you hungry?” Phil asks, his hand gone from Chuckie’s face, and Chuckie’s never been so hungry in his whole life. He nods enthusiastically, and Phil laughs and nods and looks around the diner at the sad faces and the dimly lit tables. “I’ll take you somewhere else. Or better! I’ll make you dinner. Let’s go shopping.”

\--

Phil starts coming over about once a week. Sometimes he brings Sully and it’s a bit of a party, everyone fighting over seating space in Chuckie’s tiny living room - until Phil starts offering him his lap. Chuckie lays his head on Phil’s shoulder and feels his belly jiggle with every laugh and his heart jump as he traces tattoos on the man’s arms. It feels right.

Chuckie quits his job. He says he’ll find a new one, but Phil fronts him for the next month’s rent and Sully brings an armful of groceries. They take care of Chuckie like he’s their own, and Chuckie feels connected to the earth for the first time in his life.

The first time Phil spends the night he catches Chuckie crying in the middle of the night. He tips the bedroom door open a little more - Chuckie never closes it - and he sits on the end of the bed and listens and rubs little circles into the baby’s legs. And then his thighs. His back. His neck. He dips low, pressing his forehead to Chuckie’s tear stained cheek, and in the morning they’re tangled together and breathing in tandem.

Chuckie wakes up slow against Phil’s chest, peering up at him curiously, wondering if he’s stewing in regret. But Phil is awake and he brushes Chuckie’s hair with his fingers and they lay in silence under the sunshine. It’s okay, floating four stories up above the street, as long as Chuckie’s wrapped up in colorful tattoos and sturdy muscle. They talk, hushed even while alone. Phil tells Chuckie that he’s lonely and Chuckie responds the same. They are the same, the more they speak. Scared. Alone. Floating.

Angry.

Chuckie whispers his stories. He tells Phil about the dark. About ants crawling on his food, about the wet smell of the walls, about the footsteps over his head. He tells him about his flattened pillow and his deteriorating blankets. His clothes that didn’t fit. The blood caked under his nails from trying to scratch his way through the doors and through his skin.

Phil grows dark. It doesn’t scare Chuckie - this is a darkness he knows.

“If you could take it all back, would you?” The question has haunted Chuckie until he knew the answer by heart. He scoots to settle on Phil’s chest, fingers barely brushing his beard and his lips and his cheeks and his ears.

“No.”

“Now why the fuck not?”

Chuckie giggles and likes the responsive smile he drags out of Phil’s darkness. “Because. Chas might be happy if I did.” They smile together, sunshine penetrating their fear. Banishing it.

“Would you kill him? If you could.”

“Would you?”

“In a heartbeat.”

“Then… me, too.” They are the same.

Chuckie has his first kiss that morning. Warmed by the sun and by Phil’s body and by lust. They kiss for so long that he thinks he might be good at it, but has nothing to gauge by. No point of reference. Maybe Phil can be the only person he ever kisses. The only person to press fingers deep into the muscle of his neck and to run his teeth along the curve of his jaw and up onto his ear. He doesn’t want anyone else to do it.

They are interrupted by Phil’s phone buzzing a hectic pattern in his pocket, stuck right between them. The man laughs and Chuckie sighs, content enough to let him fish for the device. When he answers he’s quiet for a moment, letting a recording play.

“Officer,” Phil offers as a greeting when it’s over, and Chuckie is curious and lays his chin on Phil’s collar to hear both sides of the conversation. A man with a smooth voice says Phil’s name.

“Don’t you miss me, Phillip? It’s been two weeks since you stopped by.” Chuckie recognizes that voice - a man from the news. A comforting, quiet voice he’d heard with his ear pressed up to the door of the basement. A voice he’d pictured while drawing him with his hands around his children’s throat, their faces blue under the water.

“You are just the man I wanted to hear from,” Phil laughs, one arm around Chuckie’s waist and dragging him in close. He tilts to catch Chuckie’s eye, whispering lips over his, and then returning to his friend. “I need a favor.”

“First he doesn’t visit, then he needs a favor. I needed a favor last year, and now I’m in prison-”

“Shut the fuck up, Beau.”

\--

Chuckie gets the call a few months later. He’s standing in the kitchen of Phil’s house - of his new home - when they tell him very carefully that his father was stabbed four times in the stomach by a fellow inmate. That his father died before the paramedics arrived. That they were sorry, they did all they could. These things happen.

He stands there. Glued to the floor, staring across the bar at Phil’s smiling face in the living room. What had he done to deserve this? Phil’s eyebrows raise, as if he’s curious, as if he doesn’t know exactly what Chuckie is hearing. He gets to his feet and meets the frozen boy, hands all over him, lips on his neck. Chuckie hangs up without responding.

“Thank you,” he whispers, and Phil hums against Chuckie’s ear. “Thank you.” The earth is still turning and Chuckie is still floating. What had he done to deserve this kindness? Phil lifts him off of his feet because Chuckie can’t move, and he curls into the embrace, wrapped tightly against his boyfriend’s body. Floating. “I’m free.”


End file.
